A New World Begins with New Thought

Iqbal’s تخلیق — Takhlīq (Creation), from Zarb-e Kalīm

بِسْمِ اللَّهِ الرَّحْمَٰنِ الرَّحِيمِ

Bismi llāhi r-raḥmāni r-raḥīm.

In the name of God, the All-Merciful, the Ever-Merciful.

Iqbal begins with the making of a world and ends with the possibility of companions. Between these two moments, he asks what a human being must become in order to bring something new into life. Fresh thought awakens possibility; resolve gives it strength; each breath becomes an opportunity to form a life that can endure. By the final couplet, the poet senses that others may arise to share this work.

Takhlīq, “Creation,” is an Urdu poem in the “Literature and Fine Arts” section of Zarb-e Kalīm. Its five couplets appear below in their original order, with transliteration, a fresh English rendering, and commentary. [1] I read its movement as spiritual renewal becoming creative responsibility: a person’s inward life acquires the depth and direction through which a new human world can emerge.

The beginning of a new world

جہانِ تازہ کی افکارِ تازہ سے ہے نمود کہ سنگ و خشت سے ہوتے نہیں جہاں پیدا

Jahān-e tāzah kī afkār-e tāzah se hai numūd Ke sang-o khisht se hote nahīñ jahāñ paidā

A new world comes into being through fresh thought; for worlds are not born of stone and brick.

Afkār is the plural of fikr: thoughts or ideas. Numūd suggests appearing or becoming manifest. Iqbal places tāzah, “fresh,” beside both thought and world. Their renewal belongs together. The relationships, purposes, and ways of living that make a human world take shape through the thought that animates them.

The following couplets give this thought an inward source and a practical demand. An idea must acquire enough conviction to govern conduct. In the first lecture of The Reconstruction of Religious Thought in Islam, Iqbal connects human initiative and the development of inward capacities with participation in the possibilities of the universe. He invokes Qur’an 13:11 to join changed human conditions to inward change. [2]

My mind goes to education. A school needs rooms, books, and places to work. It also needs a living understanding of the child, worthy purposes, and adults whose decisions give those purposes form. The opening couplet invites a question that reaches into daily practice: what kind of human world are our classrooms bringing into being?

A stream becomes a sea

خودی میں ڈوبنے والوں کے عزم و ہمت نے اس آبجو سے کیے بحرِ بے کراں پیدا

Khudī meñ ḍūbne vāloñ ke ʿazm-o himmat ne Is ābjū se kiye baḥr-e be-karāñ paidā

The resolve and courage of those who plunge into selfhood have brought forth boundless seas from this stream.

Khudī names the developing personal self: the centre of consciousness, choice, love, responsibility, and action. Its growth involves the discipline through which a person becomes more fully capable of answering to God. In Asrār-e Khudī, Iqbal describes the self’s education through obedience, mastery of oneself, and divine vicegerency. Nearness to God gives individuality greater strength and fullness. [3]

“Plunging into selfhood” is therefore an image of discovering the depths and responsibilities of one’s own being. The scale changes: an ābjū, a stream, becomes a baḥr-e be-karāñ, a shoreless sea. A closely related poem in Bāl-e Jibrīl calls khudī itself a shoreless sea and reproaches those who mistake it for a stream. [4] That parallel helps us hear how much possibility an apparently small personal life may hold.

ʿAzm means firm resolve: a decision held steadily enough to shape action. Himmat means courage and aspiring energy. It also carries a spiritual resonance through Arabic himma, the aspiration that directs a seeker’s inward powers towards a high aim. Ibn ʿArabī’s letter to Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī associates elevated himma with seeking realized knowledge of God. [5] This illuminates a shared vocabulary; it does not make the couplet a statement of Ibn ʿArabī’s whole teaching. Iqbal’s pairing gives aspiration the steadiness of resolve.

The self’s growth also has an ethical measure. Iqbal writes: “The principle of the ego-sustaining deed is respect for the ego in myself as well as in others.” [6] In education, an adult’s growing judgment should help a child acquire judgment of their own. The strength of one person can become a condition for another person’s growth.

An everlasting life in every breath

وہی زمانے کی گردش پہ غالب آتا ہے جو ہر نفَس سے کرے عمرِ جاوداں پیدا

Vuhī zamāne kī gardish pe ghālib ātā hai Jo har nafas se kare ʿumr-e jāvidāñ paidā

Only that person prevails over the turning of the age who creates an everlasting life with every breath.

Here نفَس is nafas, “breath,” distinct from nafs, “self” or “soul.” Gardish evokes turning and changing circumstances. Iqbal brings the movement of an age into relation with the intimate passage of a single breath. A person’s inward purpose shapes how they meet what time brings.

ʿUmr-e jāvidāñ means everlasting life. The phrase reaches into Iqbal’s distinctive account of personal immortality. In the fourth lecture of The Reconstruction, he presents the self’s capacity to endure as something it must develop through its deeds. [6] Each passing moment therefore has a bearing on what the person is becoming and on the self’s future beyond death.

A Sufi reader may also hear a concern with presence: how do I inhabit this breath before God? The verse leaves that concern within its image, without prescribing a particular practice. I think of keeping a costly promise, restraining a humiliating word, or attending carefully to someone who needs us. Such moments form the one who acts and touch the life of the one who receives the act. The briefest encounter can carry a lasting responsibility.

The cost of losing selfhood

خودی کی موت سے مشرق کی سر زمینوں میں ہوا نہ کوئی خدائی کا رازداں پیدا

Khudī kī maut se mashriq kī sarzamīnoñ meñ Huā nah koʾī khudāʾī kā rāzdāñ paidā

With selfhood’s death in the lands of the East, no one intimate with the mysteries of God’s creation has arisen.

The word khudī returns under the sign of death. Read beside the stream becoming a sea, this death suggests a loss of inward vitality, judgment, courage, and creative responsibility. Iqbal addresses the lands of the East, so his grief concerns the life of societies as well as the condition of persons.

Rāzdāñ means one who knows a secret and, by extension, a confidant: someone admitted into intimacy. Khudāʾī can mean divinity or divine sovereignty; it can also mean God’s world, creation, and the manifestations of divine power. [7] The English here foregrounds creation, while the Urdu retains the resonance of intimacy with the Divine. I read the phrase as pointing towards someone awake to the mysteries of God’s creative order.

Such understanding asks something of the person who receives it. In the final lecture of The Reconstruction, Iqbal describes contact with ultimate reality as a transformation that finds historical expression through creative action. [2] Inward awakening acquires a task in the world.

The “death of selfhood” also needs to be distinguished from the varied Sufi meanings of fanāʾ, often translated as annihilation. Al-Hujwīrī gives several accounts; in one, ignorance gives way to knowledge, heedlessness to remembrance, and blameworthy qualities to worthy ones. [8] This helps us distinguish the spiritual overcoming of selfishness from the loss of responsibility and inward life lamented here.

The scent of companionship

ہوائے دشت سے بوئے رفاقت آتی ہے عجب نہیں ہے کہ ہوں میرے ہم عناں پیدا

Havā-e dasht se bū-e rafāqat ātī hai ʿAjab nahīñ hai ke hoñ mere ham-ʿināñ paidā

From the desert wind comes the scent of companionship; it would be no wonder if companions arose to ride beside me.

After the severity of the fourth couplet, something reaches the poet from the open country. Dasht means wilderness or desert; here I hear an image of apparent barrenness and solitude. Bū, scent, announces a presence before that presence becomes visible. Iqbal senses the possibility of companions before he can point to their arrival.

Rafāqat means companionship, fellowship, friendship, or accompanying someone. It is related to rafīq, a companion. [7] Its spiritual significance grows from the quality and purpose of that companionship. Qur’an 4:69 places those who obey God and the Messenger in the company of prophets, truthful people, martyrs, and the righteous, and praises them as companions. [9] Companionship belongs here to the fulfilment of a God-directed life.

The Sufi background becomes clearer through ṣuḥbah, keeping company, familiar in Persian and Urdu as ṣuḥbat or suhbat. Al-Hujwīrī’s Kashf al-Maḥjūb treats companionship as a discipline undertaken for God’s sake. Its obligations include sincere counsel, concern for the companion’s welfare, and freedom from envy and dishonesty. [8] A companion’s example can strengthen our resolve; honest counsel can expose our self-deception; our responsibilities to one another train patience and fidelity.

There is also an ethical resonance in the shared Arabic root of rafīq and rifq, gentleness. The Prophetic teaching in Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim 2593 commends gentleness and associates it with divine kindness. [10] Rafāqat still means companionship, but this related vocabulary invites attention to the care with which companions accompany one another.

I therefore hear spiritual fellowship in this line, while leaving the word’s breadth intact. The poem does not specify a formal spiritual station or a teacher–disciple relationship. Ham-ʿināñ gives the fellowship its more precise image. ʿInān means a rein; the compound evokes fellow riders and can mean a companion, peer, or equal. [7] Iqbal hopes for people able to share his direction and keep pace with his purpose. Their developed selfhood can sustain a common work.

A reader familiar with the story of Joseph may also hear a resonance with Jacob recognizing Joseph’s scent before their reunion, in Qur’an 12:94. [9] This remains a possible echo; the poem does not establish an explicit allusion. In either reading, the scent carries hope into a place that seemed empty.

Paidā, “born,” “arisen,” or “brought into being,” closes the second line of every couplet. Worlds arise, seas arise, everlasting life arises; a knower of mysteries fails to arise; then companions may arise. The poem’s hope for a new world becomes a hope for the people capable of creating it together.

Use in Akhlāq or Character

This poem is useful when we are preparing to build something: a school, a community, a piece of work, or a more purposeful life. It asks us to attend to the thought behind the undertaking and to the person we are becoming as we carry it. A worthy purpose needs inward discipline, courage, and a willingness to answer for our actions.

For a teacher, the questions become personal. What understanding of the child gives life to my choices? How am I strengthening my own judgment and helping children develop theirs? How do my words and decisions honour the dignity of those entrusted to me? Each ordinary encounter gives these questions a practical form.

The final couplet adds another responsibility: the care of companionship. Who helps me remain truthful about my work? Whose growth am I willing to support through patient attention and honest counsel? In the light of rafāqat, shared purpose carries obligations of kindness, fidelity, and responsibility before God.

Iqbal’s desert wind invites us to notice fellowship while it is still taking shape. Someone asks a serious question. Another person accepts a difficult responsibility. A colleague brings care and courage to work we share. These may be signs of the companions with whom a fresh thought can become a living world.

Sources and textual notes

[1] Muḥammad Iqbāl, Takhlīq, Zarb-e Kalīm, “Literature and Fine Arts.” The Urdu follows the text on Rekhta, with selective pronunciation marks. The English rendering is fresh for this post; the fourth couplet foregrounds the sense of divine creation within khudāʾī. Ñ marks a nasal vowel in the transliteration. The final line retains hai, present in the Urdu source.

[2] Muḥammad Iqbāl, The Reconstruction of Religious Thought in Islam, lecture I, “Knowledge and Religious Experience,” and lecture VII, “Is Religion Possible?” These discussions connect inward development and religious experience with creative action.

[3] Muḥammad Iqbāl, The Secrets of the Self (Asrār-i Khudī), translated by Reynold A. Nicholson (1920), section IX and Iqbal’s explanation reproduced in the introduction. These supply the account of the self’s education and its development through nearness to God.

[4] Muḥammad Iqbāl, Bāl-e Jibrīl, the poem beginning “Khudī vuh baḥr hai jis kā koʾī kinārah nahīñ,” reproduced by Iqbal Academy Pakistan. Its sea-and-stream imagery supplies a close parallel.

[5] Ibn ʿArabī, “A Letter to Imam al-Razi,” translated by Mohammed Rustom, published by the Muhyiddin Ibn Arabi Society. The letter’s use of himma illuminates the Sufi background of spiritual aspiration; it is offered as a comparison, not evidence of a direct borrowing in this couplet.

[6] Muḥammad Iqbāl, The Reconstruction of Religious Thought in Islam, lecture IV, “The Human Ego—His Freedom and Immortality.” This is the source of the quotation on respect for oneself and others and of the discussion of personal immortality.

[7] Lexical references: Rekhta Dictionary, khudāʾī; Rekhta’s Urdu dictionary entry for rafāqat, including Platts; and Rekhta Dictionary entries for ʿinān and ham-ʿināñ.

[8] ʿAlī b. ʿUthmān al-Hujwīrī, The Kashf al-Maḥjūb, translated by Reynold A. Nicholson (1911): “Discourse on Subsistence (baqā) and Annihilation (fanā),” especially pp. 242–243; and chapter XXIII, “Concerning Companionship, together with its Rules and Principles,” pp. 334–366. These provide classical Sufi context rather than proof of Iqbal’s specific sources.

[9] Qur’an 4:69, on the company of prophets, truthful people, martyrs, and the righteous; and 12:94, on Jacob recognizing Joseph’s scent. These are interpretive resonances; neither verse is explicitly quoted in the poem.

[10] Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim 2593, “The Virtue of Gentleness,” on rifq. Gentleness and companionship are related within the Arabic root family but remain distinct meanings.

The Heart Already Known

A Persian couplet in praise of Mīr Sayyid ʿAlī Hamadānī, attributed to Sayyid Jalāl al-Dīn Bukhārī.

بِسْمِ اللَّهِ الرَّحْمَٰنِ الرَّحِيمِ

Bismi llāhi r-raḥmāni r-raḥīm.

In the name of God, the All-Merciful, the Ever-Merciful.

The speaker comes with the condition of his heart, but pauses before describing it. Why explain what the person he addresses already knows? The answer lies in the sound of the second line, where hama-dānī leads into Hamadānī.

The heart’s condition

اَحْوَالِ دِل اَیْ شَاه نَگُویَم کِه نَدَانِی

Aḥvāl-e dil ay Shāh, na-gūyam ki na-dānī;

My King, why should I tell you what my heart holds, as if you did not know?

Aḥvāl is the plural of ḥāl: conditions or states. Here it gathers everything the speaker carries within his heart. His question has a quiet turn. By saying that he need not tell the King, he has already begun to speak.

A name within the answer

بِاللّٰه هَمَه‌دَانِی کِه تُو شَاهِ هَمَدَانِی

billāh, hama-dānī ki tu Shāh-e Hamadānī.

By God, you know all things, for you are the King of Hamadan.

Billāh means “by God.” The oath gives force to the speaker’s assurance. Then comes the couplet’s play on sound: hama-dānī, “you know all,” is heard again in Hamadānī, the saint’s name of origin. English can carry the meaning, but the Persian lets the name itself complete the praise.

“King” is an honorific address to the revered saint. I read “you know all” as the speaker’s expression of trust: he feels that the state of his heart is already understood.

A note on attribution

The version shared here attributes the couplet to Sayyid Jalāl al-Dīn Bukhārī. An Urdu discussion of poetry praising Hamadānī reproduces these lines among verses it associates with Muḥarram ʿAlī Chishtī. It does not establish who first composed the couplet, so the attribution remains tentative.

The first line holds back the story of the heart. The second speaks a name. Between them is the relief of being understood before every feeling has found its words.

Without a Pīr: A Persian Verse on Finding the Way

A quatrain (ruba'i) on the guide, the seeker, and the King attributed to Khwaja Habibullah Nowshehri of Kashmir.

بِسْمِ اللَّهِ الرَّحْمَٰنِ الرَّحِيمِ

Bismi llāhi r-raḥmāni r-raḥīm.

In the name of God, the All-Merciful, the Ever-Merciful.

The lines begin with a traveller on a road and end with a beggar at a king’s court. Both want to arrive. The poet asks who can show them the way.

I reproduce the four lines in the form supplied to me, including the uncertain یک(ی) in the second line. I have not identified an author or a reliable earlier witness for this wording. The translation follows its apparent sense.  

The traveller

مَرْدِ بِی پِیر دَر اِین رَاه بَه جَایِی نَرَسَد

Mard-e bī pīr dar īn rāh ba-jā’ī na-rasad

A man without a pīr arrives nowhere on this path.

Mard means “man”; the difficulty named here can be recognized by any seeker. Pīr literally means an elder and, in Sufi usage, an experienced spiritual guide. The poet’s phrase ba-jā’ī na-rasad measures the journey by arrival. The traveller may be moving, yet still fail to reach the place he seeks.

The first arrival

نَرَسَد تَا بَه یَک رَاه‌نُمَایِی نَرَسَد

Na-rasad tā ba-yak rāh-numā’ī na-rasad

He does not arrive until he reaches a guide.

The repeated na-rasad, “does not arrive,” turns the thought back on itself. Before the traveller reaches a destination, he must reach someone who knows the road. Rāh-numā is “one who shows the way.” The word describes the guide’s work with some precision: showing, correcting, and accompanying. The traveller must still walk.  

What we heard and saw

مَا شَنِیدِیم و بَدِیدِیم زِ هَر کَس هَر جَا

Mā shanīdīm o badīdīm zi har kas har jā

We have heard it and seen it, from everyone, everywhere.

Shanīdīm o badīdīm puts hearing beside seeing. The speaker has received the lesson from others and claims to have recognized it in experience. “Everyone, everywhere” gives the statement the force of conviction; it is the reach of a poet’s voice, rather than a count of witnesses. The poem has also moved from “a man” to “we.” The traveller is no longer alone in what he has learned.

The beggar and the King

کِه بِلَاوَاسِطَه بَادْشَاه گَدَایِی نَرَسَد

Ke bilā-wāsiṭa bādshāh gadā’ī na-rasad

Without an intermediary, no beggar reaches the King.

The road becomes a court. Gadā’ī is a beggar; bādshāh is a king. The seeker approaches in need, with no rank to claim. Wāsiṭa, the intermediary, evokes someone who can bring the beggar to the royal presence. Read beside the opening lines, the pīr serves as this figure of guidance.

The court is an image, and its limits matter. A human ruler may need someone to admit a visitor; God says, “I am near,” and answers the one who calls upon Him (Qur’an 2:186). A teacher can help the seeker learn to ask honestly, attend to his conduct, and recognize his need. The prayer still reaches God.  

The last line leaves the seeker a beggar even after he has found a guide. He has reached the threshold; what he receives there remains the King’s gift. 

 

A Glance of Mercy

Five Persian couplets on longing for the Prophet ﷺ

بِسْمِ اللَّهِ الرَّحْمَٰنِ الرَّحِيمِ

Bismi llāhi r-raḥmāni r-raḥīm.

In the name of God, the All-Merciful, the Ever-Merciful.

The poem begins with a plea for a merciful glance. The speaker calls himself a stranger, without means, and as low as dust. At his last breath, he hopes to see the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ.

This naat is traditionally attributed to Nūr al-Dīn ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Jāmī. The five-couplet text below follows Sufinama and KalamDB. I have regularized the Persian spelling, marked vowels that help with pronunciation, and translated the verses afresh. I have not found a manuscript or identified critical edition that confirms the attribution to Jāmī. [1]

A plea for mercy

زِ رَحمَت کُن نَظَر بَر حالِ زارَم، یا رسول‌الله غَریبَم، بی‌نَوایَم، خاکسارَم، یا رسول‌الله

Ze raḥmat kon naẓar bar ḥāl-e zāram, yā Rasūl Allāh Gharībam, bī-navāyam, khāk-sāram, yā Rasūl Allāh

Look upon my troubled state with mercy, O Messenger of God. I am a stranger, destitute, lowly as dust, O Messenger of God.

Gharīb can mean poor or far from home; bī-navā describes someone without resources; khāk-sār means humble, as low as dust. The three words move from estrangement to poverty to humility.

His request is for naẓar, a look, given with raḥmat, mercy. The Qur’an calls the Prophet ﷺ “a mercy to the worlds” (21:107) and speaks of his concern for the suffering of his people (9:128). These are useful parallels for the poem’s language, though it does not quote either verse. [2]

The scar and the gardens

زِ داغِ هِجرِ تو که دِل‌فِگارَم، یا رسول‌الله بَهارِ صَد چَمَن دَر سینه دارَم، یا رسول‌الله

Ze dāgh-e hejr-e to ke del-figāram, yā Rasūl Allāh Bahār-e sad chaman dar sīna dāram, yā Rasūl Allāh

The anguis of separation from you has scarred my heart, O Messenger of God. Yet I bear the spring of a hundred gardens in my breast, O Messenger of God.

Dāgh is a burn mark. The speaker’s breast bears it and holds the springtime of “a hundred gardens.” His sense of loss and his love grow from the same attachment.

The restless heart

تویی تَسکینِ دِل، آرامِ جان، صَبر و قَرارِ مَن رُخِ پُرنور بِنَما، بی‌قَرارَم، یا رسول‌الله

Tuyī taskīn-e del, ārām-e jān, sabr o qarār-e man Rokh-e por-nūr benamā, bī-qarāram, yā Rasūl Allāh

You are the solace of my heart, peace of my soul, my patience and my repose. Reveal your radiant face; for I am restless, O Messenger of God.

In the first line, qarār is the repose the Prophet ﷺ gives him. In the second, he is bī-qarār: he cannot settle until he sees the face he loves.

“You know”

تویی مولایِ مَن، آقایِ مَن، والِی و جانِ مَن تویی دانی که جُز تو کَس نَدارَم، یا رسول‌الله

Tuyī mowlā-ye man, āqā-ye man, vālī o jān-e man Tuyī dānī ke joz to kas nadāram, yā Rasūl Allāh

You are my lord, my master, my guardian and my very life. You know full well that I have no one but you, O Messenger of God.

The repeated tuyī, “you are,” lists the Prophet’s names and stations. Tuyī dānī, “you know,” then drops the formality. The speaker does not argue his case. He trusts that his isolation is already known.

At the last breath

دَمِ آخِر نَمایی جَلوهٔ دیدار جامی را زِ لُطفِ تو هَمین اُمیدوارَم، یا رسول‌الله

Dam-e ākhar namāyī jalva-ye dīdār Jāmī rā Ze lotf-e to hamīn omīdvāram, yā Rasūl Allāh

Grant Jāmī the vision of your radiance in my final breath. Through your grace, this is alone is what I hope for, O Messenger of God.

Jāmī’s name appears as a poetic signature. The first couplet asks for the Prophet’s glance; the last asks to behold him at the moment of death. The appeal ends on omīdvāram, “I hope,” before the refrain returns.

Text and sources

[1] Sufinama and KalamDB print five couplets under Jāmī’s name. Neither page names a manuscript or a critical edition for this poem. The Persian above follows their shared sequence and lightly regularizes its spelling. The marks guide pronunciation and show grammatical links; they do not establish a manuscript reading.

Textual note. A six-couplet version adds a couplet beginning “You are the sovereign of the world” before the signature verse. It also changes some wording. The added couplet is absent from the two five-couplet versions used here; its date and authorship remain uncertain.

[2] Qur’an 21:107 describes the Messenger as mercy to the worlds; 9:128 describes his concern for the suffering of his people. These are contextual parallels, not direct quotations within the Persian poem.

Qasidah Ghousia

الْقَصِيدَةُ الْغَوْثِيَّةُ

Qasidah Ghousia

Fully Vocalized Arabic Transliteration and Modern English Translation

Traditionally attributed to Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī

About This Edition

This edition follows the complete 30-couplet recension printed in Qasaid e Ghousia (2002), with its opening and closing lines checked against the catalogue record for manuscript MS3859.2. Each numbered unit presents one fully vocalized Arabic couplet, one scholarly transliteration, and one modern English translation.

The Arabic preserves the adopted wording of the base text. Full case vowels are supplied where the syntax permits, while the final rhyme may naturally be read in pause. The transliteration uses macrons for long vowels and standard scholarly signs for Arabic consonants.

Several lines survive in unstable or grammatically compressed forms. Their translations remain close to the transmitted wording, and the most consequential difficulties are recorded after the poem. The speaker’s ecstatic claims are translated as poetic speech rather than restated as doctrinal propositions.

Transliteration Key

Long vowels ā ī ū   Hamza ʾ   Ayn ʿ   Emphatics ḥ ṣ ḍ ṭ ẓ   Other consonants kh dh sh gh

The Poem

﴿١﴾  سَقَانِي الْحُبُّ كَأْسَاتِ الْوِصَالِ — فَقُلْتُ لِخَمْرَتِي نَحْوِي تَعَالَيْ

Saqānī al-ḥubbu kaʾsāti al-wiṣāli — fa-qultu li-khamratī naḥwī taʿālay.

Love gave me the cups of union to drink, and I said to my wine, “Come toward me.”

﴿٢﴾  سَعَتْ وَمَشَتْ لِنَحْوِي فِي كُؤُوسٍ — فَهِمْتُ بِسَكْرَتِي بَيْنَ الْمَوَالِي

Saʿat wa-mashat li-naḥwī fī kuʾūsin — fa-fahimtu bi-sakratī bayna al-mawālī.

It hastened and came toward me in cups; in my intoxication, among the masters, I came to understand.

﴿٣﴾  وَقُلْتُ لِسَائِرِ الْأَقْطَابِ لُمُّوا — بِحَانِي وَادْخُلُوا أَنْتُمْ رِجَالِي

Wa-qultu li-sāʾiri al-aqṭābi lummū — bi-ḥānī wa-udkhulū antum rijālī.

I said to all the spiritual poles, “Gather in my tavern and enter; you are my men.”

﴿٤﴾  وَهِيمُوا وَاشْرَبُوا أَنْتُمْ جُنُودِي — فَسَاقِي الْقَوْمِ بِالْوَافِي مَلَا لِي

Wa-hīmū wa-ishrabū antum junūdī — fa-sāqī al-qawmi bi-al-wāfī malā lī.

Lose yourselves in ecstasy and drink—you are my soldiers; the people’s cupbearer has filled a brimming cup for me.

﴿٥﴾  شَرِبْتُمْ فَضْلَتِي مِنْ بَعْدِ سُكْرِي — وَلَا نِلْتُمْ عُلُوِّي وَاتِّصَالِي

Sharibtum faḍlatī min baʿdi sukrī — wa-lā niltum ʿuluwwī wa-ittiṣālī.

You drank what overflowed from me after my intoxication, but you did not attain my elevation or my union.

﴿٦﴾  مَقَامُكُمُ الْعُلَا جَمْعًا وَلَكِنْ — مَقَامِي فَوْقَكُمْ مَا زَالَ عَالِي

Maqāmukumu al-ʿulā jamʿan wa-lākin — maqāmī fawqakum mā zāla ʿālī.

All your stations are lofty, yet my station above you has always remained high.

﴿٧﴾  أَنَا فِي حَضْرَةِ التَّقْرِيبِ وَحْدِي — يُصَرِّفُنِي وَحَسْبِي ذُو الْجَلَالِ

Anā fī ḥaḍrati al-taqrībi waḥdī — yuṣarrifunī wa-ḥasbī Dhū al-Jalāli.

Alone in the Presence of Nearness, the Lord of Majesty directs me and is enough for me.

﴿٨﴾  أَنَا الْبَازِيُّ أَشْهَبُ كُلِّ شَيْخٍ — وَمَنْ ذَا فِي الرِّجَالِ أُعْطِيَ مِثَالِي

Anā al-bāziyyu ashhabu kulli shaykhin — wa-man dhā fī al-rijāli uʿṭiya mithālī.

I am the Grey Falcon of every shaykh; who among the spiritual men has been given a likeness such as mine?

﴿٩﴾  كَسَانِي الْخِلْعَةَ بِطِرَازِ عَزْمٍ — وَتَوَّجَنِي بِتِيجَانِ الْكَمَالِ

Kasānī al-khilʿata bi-ṭirāzi ʿazmin — wa-tawwajanī bi-tījāni al-kamāli.

He clothed me in a robe embroidered with resolve and crowned me with the crowns of perfection.

﴿١٠﴾  وَأَطْلَعَنِي عَلَى سِرٍّ قَدِيمٍ — وَقَلَّدَنِي وَأَعْطَانِي سُؤَالِي

Wa-aṭlaʿanī ʿalā sirrin qadīmin — wa-qalladanī wa-aʿṭānī suʾālī.

He disclosed an ancient secret to me, invested me, and granted what I asked.

﴿١١﴾  وَوَلَّانِي عَلَى الْأَقْطَابِ جَمْعًا — فَحُكْمِي نَافِذٌ فِي كُلِّ حَالِ

Wa-wallānī ʿalā al-aqṭābi jamʿan — fa-ḥukmī nāfidhun fī kulli ḥāli.

He placed me over all the spiritual poles, so my command takes effect in every state.

﴿١٢﴾  وَلَوْ أَلْقَيْتُ سِرِّي فِي بِحَارٍ — لَصَارَ الْكُلُّ غَوْرًا فِي الزَّوَالِ

Wa-law alqaytu sirrī fī biḥārin — la-ṣāra al-kullu ghawran fī al-zawāli.

If I cast my secret into the seas, every one of them would sink into the depths and vanish.

﴿١٣﴾  وَلَوْ أَلْقَيْتُ سِرِّي فِي جِبَالٍ — لَدُكَّتْ وَاخْتَفَتْ بَيْنَ الرِّمَالِ

Wa-law alqaytu sirrī fī jibālin — la-dukkat wa-ikhtafat bayna al-rimāli.

If I cast my secret into mountains, they would be crushed and disappear among the sands.

﴿١٤﴾  فَلَوْ أَلْقَيْتُ سِرِّي فَوْقَ نَارٍ — لَخَمَدَتْ وَانْطَفَتْ فِي سِرِّ حَالِي

Fa-law alqaytu sirrī fawqa nārin — la-khamadat wa-inṭafat fī sirri ḥālī.

If I cast my secret upon a fire, it would die down and be extinguished by the secret of my state.

﴿١٥﴾  وَلَوْ أَلْقَيْتُ سِرِّي فَوْقَ مَيِّتٍ — لَقَامَ بِقُدْرَةِ الْمَوْلَى مَشَى لِي

Wa-law alqaytu sirrī fawqa mayyitin — la-qāma bi-qudrati al-mawlā mashā lī.

If I cast my secret upon a dead person, he would rise by the Lord’s power and walk toward me.

﴿١٦﴾  وَمَا مِنْهَا شُهُورٌ أَوْ دُهُورٌ — تَمُرُّ وَتَنْقَضِي إِلَّا أَتَى لِي

Wa-mā minhā shuhūrun aw duhūrun — tamurru wa-tanqaḍī illā atā lī.

No month or age passes and comes to an end without its account reaching me.

﴿١٧﴾  وَتُخْبِرُنِي بِمَا يَأْتِي وَيَجْرِي — وَتُعَلِّمُنِي فَأَقْصُرُ عَنْ جِدَالِي

Wa-tukhbirunī bi-mā yaʾtī wa-yajrī — wa-tuʿallimunī fa-aqṣuru ʿan jidālī.

It tells me what is to come and what will unfold; it teaches me, so I refrain from argument.

﴿١٨﴾  مُرِيدِي هِمْ وَطِبْ وَاشْطَحْ وَغَنِّ — وَافْعَلْ مَا تَشَا فَالِاسْمُ عَالِي

Murīdī him wa-ṭib wa-ishṭaḥ wa-ghanni — wa-ifʿal mā tashā fa-al-ismu ʿālī.

My disciple, lose yourself in love, rejoice, speak from ecstasy, and sing; do as you wish, for the Name is exalted.

﴿١٩﴾  مُرِيدِي لَا تَخَفْ، اللَّهُ رَبِّي — عَطَانِي رِفْعَةً نِلْتُ الْمَنَالَ

Murīdī lā takhaf, Allāhu rabbī — ʿaṭānī rifʿatan niltu al-manāla.

My disciple, do not fear: God is my Lord. He granted me elevation, and I attained my desire.

﴿٢٠﴾  طُبُولِي فِي السَّمَاءِ وَالْأَرْضِ دُقَّتْ — وَشَاوِيشُ السَّعَادَةِ قَدْ بَدَا لِي

Ṭubūlī fī al-samāʾi wa-al-arḍi duqqat — wa-shāwīshu al-saʿādati qad badā lī.

My drums have been beaten in heaven and on earth, and the herald of felicity has appeared to me.

﴿٢١﴾  بِلَادُ اللَّهِ مُلْكِي تَحْتَ حُكْمِي — وَوَقْتِي قَبْلَ قَلْبِي قَدْ صَفَا لِي

Bilādu Allāhi mulkī taḥta ḥukmī — wa-waqtī qabla qalbī qad ṣafā lī.

God’s lands are my domain beneath my rule; before my heart was formed, my spiritual moment had already been made clear to me.

﴿٢٢﴾  نَظَرْتُ إِلَى بِلَادِ اللَّهِ جَمْعًا — كَخَرْدَلَةٍ عَلَى حُكْمِ اتِّصَالِي

Naẓartu ilā bilādi Allāhi jamʿan — ka-khardalatin ʿalā ḥukmi ittiṣālī.

I beheld all God’s lands as a single mustard seed, by virtue of the power of my spiritual connection.

﴿٢٣﴾  وَكُلُّ وَلِيٍّ لَهُ قَدَمٌ وَإِنِّي — عَلَى قَدَمِ النَّبِيِّ بَدْرِ الْكَمَالِ

Wa-kullu waliyyin lahu qadamun wa-innī — ʿalā qadami al-nabiyyi badri al-kamāli.

Every saint has a prophetic footing; I stand upon the footing of the Prophet, the full moon of perfection.

﴿٢٤﴾  دَرَسْتُ الْعِلْمَ حَتَّى صِرْتُ قُطْبًا — وَنِلْتُ السَّعْدَ مِنْ مَوْلَى الْمَوَالِي

Darastu al-ʿilma ḥattā ṣirtu quṭban — wa-niltu al-saʿda min mawlā al-mawālī.

I studied knowledge until I became a spiritual pole, and I received felicity from the Master of all masters.

﴿٢٥﴾  فَمَنْ فِي أَوْلِيَاءِ اللَّهِ مِثْلِي — وَمَنْ فِي الْعِلْمِ وَالتَّصْرِيفِ حَالِي

Fa-man fī awliyāʾi Allāhi mithlī — wa-man fī al-ʿilmi wa-al-taṣrīfi ḥālī.

Who among God’s saints is like me? Who shares my state in knowledge and spiritual authority?

﴿٢٦﴾  رِجَالٌ فِي هَوَاجِيرِهِمْ صِيَامٌ — وَفِي ظُلَمِ اللَّيَالِي كَاللَّآلِي

Rijālun fī hawājīrihim ṣiyāmun — wa-fī ẓulami al-layālī ka-al-laʾālī.

Men fast through the scorching noons; in the darkness of the nights, they are like pearls.

﴿٢٧﴾  مُرِيدِي لَا تَخَفْ وَاشٍ فَإِنِّي — عَزُومٌ قَاتِلٌ عِنْدَ الْقِتَالِ

Murīdī lā takhaf wāshin fa-innī — ʿazūmun qātilun ʿinda al-qitāli.

My disciple, do not fear any slanderer; I am resolute, a fighter when battle comes.

﴿٢٨﴾  أَنَا الْجِيلَانِيُّ مُحْيِي الدِّينِ اِسْمِي — وَأَعْلَامِي عَلَى رَأْسِ الْجِبَالِ

Anā al-Jīlāniyyu Muḥyī al-Dīni ismī — wa-aʿlāmī ʿalā raʾsi al-jibāli.

I am al-Jilani; Muhyi al-Din is my name, and my banners stand on the peaks of the mountains.

﴿٢٩﴾  أَنَا الْحَسَنِيُّ وَالْمَخْدَعُ مَقَامِي — وَأَقْدَامِي عَلَى عُنُقِ الرِّجَالِ

Anā al-Ḥasaniyyu wa-al-makhdaʿu maqāmī — wa-aqdāmī ʿalā ʿunuqi al-rijāli.

I am a descendant of al-Hasan, and the inner chamber is my station; my feet rest upon the necks of the spiritual men.

﴿٣٠﴾  وَعَبْدُ الْقَادِرِ الْمَشْهُورُ اِسْمِي — وَجَدِّي صَاحِبُ الْعَيْنِ الْكَمَالِ

Wa-ʿAbdu al-Qādiri al-mashhūru ismī — wa-jaddī ṣāḥibu al-ʿayni al-kamāli.

Abd al-Qadir is my well-known name; my forefather is the possessor of the eye of perfection.

تَمَّتِ الْقَصِيدَةُ

Notes on Difficult Readings

Verse 4 The base printing joins ملالي. It is read here as مَلَا لِي, representing the ordinary form مَلَأَ لِي, because that division supplies the intelligible sense “filled for me.”

Verse 8 The transmitted syntax is compressed. The translation follows the established epithet al-bāz al-ashhab, “the Grey Falcon,” while retaining every consonant of the adopted Arabic line.

Verse 20 شَاوِيش is an Ottoman-period loanword used for an officer, usher, or herald. “Herald” best fits its association with felicity appearing or being announced.

Verse 21 The reading قَبْلَ قَلْبِي is preserved from the base text. Because the phrase is obscure, the translation gives its most plausible temporal and mystical sense without adopting the variant قَبْلَ قَبْلِي.

Verse 27 وَاشٍ means a slanderer, informer, or talebearer. The transmitted construction is grammatically irregular, but its intended sense is clear.

Verse 29 الْمَخْدَع literally means an inner or private chamber. Its precise mystical referent is not explained in the consulted witnesses, so the translation remains close to the wording.

Verse 30 صَاحِبُ الْعَيْنِ الْكَمَالِ is syntactically compressed in the transmitted text. “Possessor of the eye of perfection” preserves its wording and honorific force.

Sources Consulted

1. Qasaid e Ghousia. Iftikhar Ahmad Hafiz Qadri, 2002, Qasida No. 1, printed pp. 12–15. Base witness for the 30 consecutively numbered couplets.
2. Iraqi Knowledge Portal manuscript record. al-Abbas Holy Shrine Library, MS3859.2. The catalogue supplies the incipit and the closing signature couplet.
3. al-Qasidah al-Ghawthiyyah maʿa sharhiha. 1818, University of Michigan copy. Consulted as an early printed control witness.
4. Sirr al-Asrar wa Mazhar al-Anwar. Ahl al-Bayt Library digital text, p. 175. Consulted for comparison readings.
5. Saqani al-hubbu kasat al-wisal. Arabic Wikisource. Used only to compare the expanded recension and its vocalization.

Sources accessed 23 September 2026. Translation prepared for this edition.

Müsülmânlar Zamâne Yatlu Oldı: Yunus Emre on a Corrupt Age and Sincere Repentance

Old Anatolian Turkish · historical script · pronunciation · translation · commentary

Textual note

The script is best called the Perso-Arabic script adapted for Turkish—the writing system later associated with Ottoman Turkish. It is Turkish written in Arabic-Persian letters, not Persian-language poetry.

Mustafa Tatcı’s edition presents this as poem 387, gives the metre Mefâ‘îlün / Mefâ‘îlün / Fe‘ûlün, and cites three manuscript witnesses: F. 206a, T. 89a and Ç. 76a. (Mustafa Tatcı’s Yûnus Emre Dîvânı edition)

The first version below is therefore a normalized back-transcription of Tatcı’s critical Latin text into Perso-Arabic letters. It is not a diplomatic copy of one manuscript page. No manuscript written by Yunus himself—or demonstrably copied during his lifetime—survives, and the important Fatih manuscript is generally dated by its paper and orthography to the fifteenth century. (Ahmet Yesevi University, Dîvân—Yunus Emre)

Photographs from our visit

The shrine photograph places the poem within the setting in which we encountered it.

The shrine of Yunus Emre, photographed during our visit.

1. Old Anatolian Turkish in Perso-Arabic script

مسلمانلر زمانه یاتلو اولدی حلال ینمز حرام قیمتلو اولدی

اوقینان قرآنه قولاق توتولماز شیطانلر سمیردی قوّتلو اولدی

حرام ایله خمیر توتدی جهانی فساد ایشلر ایدن حرمتلو اولدی

کیمه کیم طڭریدن خبر ویرورسن قاقر باشین صالار حجّتلو اولدی

شاگرد اوستادیله عربده قیلور اوغول آتاییله عزّتلو اولدی

فقیرلر مسکینلکدن چکدی الین گوڭللر ییقوبان هیبتلو اولدی

پیغمبر یرینه گچن خواجه‌لر بو خلقڭ باشینه زحمتلو اولدی

دوتولماز اولدی پیغمبر حدیثی خلایق جمله حق‌دن اوتلو اولدی

یونس گل عاشق ایسن توبه ایله نصوحا توبه اوجی قوتلو اولدی

The letter ڭ represents the historical nasal consonant written in words such as Taŋrı and göŋül. A particular manuscript might use an ordinary ك instead, since scribal spelling was not uniform.

2. Tatcı’s historical Latin transcription

Müsülmânlar zamâne yatlu oldı Helâl yinmez harâm kıymetlü oldı

Okınan Kur’ân’a kulak tutulmaz Şeytânlar semirdi kuvvetlü oldı

Harâm ile hamîr tutdı cihânı Fesâd işler iden hürmetlü oldı

Kime kim Tanrı’dan haber virürsen Kakır başın salar hüccetlü oldı

Şakird üstâdıla ‘arbede kılur Ogul atayıla ‘izzetlü oldı

Fakîrler miskînlikden çekdi elin Gönüller yıkuban heybetlü oldı

Peygamber yirine geçen hocalar Bu halkun başına zahmetlü oldı

Dutulmaz oldı Peygamber hadîsi Halâyık cümle Hak’dan utlu oldı

Yûnus gel ‘âşıkısan tevbe eyle Nasûha tevbe ucı kutlu oldı

The poem engraved in marble stelae

The marble stelae record the complete poem across two panels. Its Latin-script spelling is partly modernized, so the inscription is best read as a public presentation of the poem rather than as a manuscript witness.

The first marble panel: couplets 1–5.

The second marble panel: couplets 6–9.

Photographs: the author’s personal collection.

3. English-reader pronunciation guide

This is an approximate reading aid, not a reconstruction of every feature of fourteenth-century pronunciation.

• ue = Turkish ü, like German ü or French u
• oe = Turkish ö
• uh = Turkish dotless ı
• sh, ch, j = the sounds in ship, church, and judge
• aa, ee, oo indicate long vowels

Mue-suel-maan-lar za-maa-neh yat-loo ol-duh Heh-laal yin-mez ha-raam kuh-y-met-lue ol-duh

Oh-kuh-nan koor-aan-ah koo-lak too-tool-maz Shay-taan-lar seh-meer-dee koov-vet-lue ol-duh

Ha-raam ee-leh ha-meer toot-duh jee-haa-nuh Feh-saad eesh-ler ee-den huer-met-lue ol-duh

Kee-meh keem tan-ruh-dan ha-ber vee-ruer-sen Ka-kuhr ba-shuhn sa-lar huej-jet-lue ol-duh

Sha-keerd ues-taa-duh-la ar-beh-deh kuh-loor Oh-ghool a-ta-yuh-la iz-zet-lue ol-duh

Fa-keer-ler mees-keen-leek-den chek-dee eh-leen Goe-nuel-ler yuh-koo-ban hay-bet-lue ol-duh

Pay-gam-ber yee-ree-neh geh-chen ho-ja-lar Boo hal-koon ba-shuh-na zah-met-lue ol-duh

Doo-tool-maz ol-duh pay-gam-ber ha-dee-see Ha-laa-yuhk juem-leh hak-dan oot-loo ol-duh

Yoo-noos gel aa-shuh-kuh-san tev-beh ay-leh Na-soo-ha tev-beh oo-juh koot-loo ol-duh

4. Smooth modern English translation

O Muslims, the age has turned corrupt: the lawful goes uneaten, while the forbidden is prized.

No one lends an ear when the Qur’an is recited; the devils have grown fat and strong.

The world lies in the grip of the forbidden and its ferment; those who spread corruption are held in honour.

Speak to anyone of God and he bristles; he tosses his head and comes armed with arguments.

The pupil quarrels with the master; the son puts on airs before his father.

Those who call themselves faqirs have cast humility aside; breaking hearts, they have made themselves figures of awe.

Teachers who set themselves in the Prophet’s place have become a burden upon the people.

The Prophet’s teaching is no longer heeded; all creation stands ashamed before the Real.

Yunus, come—if you are a lover, repent: the end of sincere repentance is blessed.

5. Explanation of the poem

The central movement

At first, the poem sounds like a conventional complaint about a corrupt age. Yunus describes a society in which every moral value has been reversed:

• What is lawful is neglected.
• What is forbidden acquires value.
• Revelation is heard but not truly listened to.
• Corrupt people receive honour.
• Spiritual advice provokes anger rather than reflection.
• Teachers, students, children, dervishes and religious leaders all lose the proper adab of their relationships.

But the final couplet radically changes the poem. Yunus does not end by congratulating himself for seeing everyone else’s faults. He turns the command upon himself:

“Yunus, if you are a lover, repent.”

That is the moral hinge of the entire poem. A complaint about “the age” becomes an examination of one’s own conscience.

Couplet 1: The inversion of value

Müsülmânlar zamâne yatlu oldı
Helâl yinmez harâm kıymetlü oldı

Yatlu means bad, corrupt or morally disordered. The more forceful idea, however, appears in the second line. Society has not merely fallen into occasional wrongdoing: it has reversed its scale of value. The forbidden has become kıymetlü—precious, esteemed and desirable—while the lawful is left untouched.

Yunus begins with appetite because what people choose to consume, pursue and prize reveals their true moral orientation.

Couplet 2: Hearing without listening

Okınan Kur’ân’a kulak tutulmaz
Şeytânlar semirdi kuvvetlü oldı

The Qur’an continues to be recited. The failure is not the absence of religious speech but the absence of receptive listening. Kulak tutmak means to lend an ear, attend seriously and heed.

The image of devils “growing fat” is intentionally physical. Every ignored admonition feeds the forces of selfishness, deception and moral indifference. Evil is not presented as abstract: it acquires weight and power through human choices.

Couplet 3: Corruption as fermentation

Harâm ile hamîr tutdı cihânı
Fesâd işler iden hürmetlü oldı

Tatcı glosses hamîr as leaven, ferment, the ferment used in drink, or intoxicating drink itself. (Tatcı’s edition) The line therefore carries a fertile double image: the forbidden has both seized the world and worked through it like ferment through dough.

The following line exposes the public dimension of the corruption. Wrongdoing no longer brings shame; it brings hürmet—social respectability. Yunus is concerned not only with private sin but with a culture that rewards and legitimizes it.

Couplet 4: The ego turns counsel into argument

Kime kim Tanrı’dan haber virürsen
Kakır başın salar hüccetlü oldı

Kakımak means to become angry. Hüccet means proof, evidence or a supposedly decisive argument. Tatcı defines hüccetlü as someone possessing an argument that cannot easily be rejected. (Tatcı’s edition)

The irony is sharp. When someone is reminded of God, instead of becoming receptive, he becomes angry and immediately produces arguments in his own defence. Religious language has ceased to transform the ego and has instead become material with which the ego protects itself.

Couplet 5: The collapse of formative relationships

Şakird üstâdıla ‘arbede kılur
Ogul atayıla ‘izzetlü oldı

The pupil quarrels with the master, while the son assumes airs before his father. The point is not unquestioning obedience to authority. It is the disappearance of humility, gratitude and teachability.

Both relationships—pupil and master, child and parent—should transmit wisdom across generations. When every correction is treated as an insult and every learner insists upon his own status, knowledge may remain, but formation disappears.

Couplet 6: Yunus’s criticism of false dervishes

Fakîrler miskînlikden çekdi elin
Gönüller yıkuban heybetlü oldı

This is one of the poem’s most important couplets. Fakîr does not refer only to someone materially poor. It is also the Sufi who recognizes his complete poverty before God. Likewise, miskînlik means far more than passivity or indigence. In Tatcı’s glossary it denotes the abandonment of selfhood and is associated with fanāʾ fi’Llāh—the surrender of the ego before God. (Tatcı’s edition)

Thus the couplet means:

• Those who bear the name of spiritual poverty have abandoned its inner reality.
• Instead of healing hearts, they break them.
• Instead of becoming humble, they cultivate heybet—an imposing, intimidating presence.

This is an internal Sufi criticism. Yunus does not spare his own religious community.

Couplet 7: Religious authority without Prophetic mercy

Peygamber yirine geçen hocalar
Bu halkun başına zahmetlü oldı

Yunus is not rejecting teachers as such. His criticism is specifically directed at teachers who place themselves in the Prophet’s position while failing to embody the Prophet’s mercy, service and moral character.

They possess religious status but become zahmet—a hardship and burden—to the people. Their authority serves themselves rather than those entrusted to their care.

There is also a carefully constructed verbal contrast:

• hürmetlü: honoured
• heybetlü: imposing
• zahmetlü: burdensome

What looks like religious dignity from the outside may, in practice, become suffering for others.

Couplet 8: Knowledge no longer embodied

Dutulmaz oldı Peygamber hadîsi
Halâyık cümle Hak’dan utlu oldı

Here dutmak means more than physically holding something. It means keeping, observing or living according to it. The Prophet’s teaching may still be repeated, but it is no longer embodied.

Halâyık means created beings or humankind, while utlu means modest, shamefaced or filled with a sense of shame. (Tatcı’s edition) Thus all creation stands ashamed before al-Ḥaqq—“the Real,” one of the names of God.

The word Hak is particularly meaningful. It means both God and Truth. A society that has inverted truth must eventually stand exposed before the Real.

Couplet 9: From accusation to repentance

Yûnus gel ‘âşıkısan tevbe eyle
Nasûha tevbe ucı kutlu oldı

The phrase nasûha tevbe recalls the Qur’anic command:

tūbū ilā Llāhi tawbatan naṣūḥā
“Turn to God in sincere repentance.” — Qur’an 66:8. (Quran.com)

This is not a reference to a person named Nasuh. It means a sincere, healing and irrevocable repentance: leaving the wrong, regretting it and resolving not to return to it.

Uç means “end, outcome or final consequence.” (Tatcı’s edition) Yunus therefore closes with hope: the blessed outcome does not belong to the person who diagnoses the age most eloquently, but to the person who sincerely repents.

The poem’s verbal architecture

The repeated ending oldı—“it became”—sounds almost like a tolling bell. Each couplet registers another stage in society’s transformation:

kıymetlü, kuvvetlü, hürmetlü, hüccetlü, ‘izzetlü, heybetlü, zahmetlü, utlu…

Most of these words describe distorted value, power, reputation or authority. Yet the final rhyme changes direction:

kutlu oldı — “its end became blessed.”

The same verbal pattern that recorded corruption now announces the possibility of renewal. That is why the final couplet is indispensable: without it, the poem would be only a denunciation of others. With it, the poem becomes a Sufi act of self-accounting.